


A Cannon Buried in Flowers

by meganlodon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John plays two instruments, M/M, Music Conservatory AU, Violinist Sherlock, all musicians are a bit different, also kind of a coffeeshop AU????????????, everyone gets along for the most part, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1201369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meganlodon/pseuds/meganlodon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where John is younger than Sherlock, and he is accepted into the Royal College of Music as a clarinetist and pianist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L'adieu

**_sixth form year 13: mid-April_ **

The remaining scraps of what used to be an envelope forgotten, John stares down at the letter in his hands, and he can't believe that it's almost as if there's something weighing down his chest. He can't breathe, and he doesn't know if he should be shouting with joy or crying out in amazement or weeping. He settles for collapsing in shock. Sitting down rather abruptly, the chair beneath him squeaks in protest, the legs scraping and screeching across the wood floor.

"John, are you alright?" His mother's voice floats down the stairs and she comes rushing down. "Are you alright?" She looks down at him, and she finally sees the letter balancing in John's hands.

"Mum," John whispers hoarsely, "I got in. I got into the Royal College of Music." 

"John—John, that's incredible! What for? Clarinet or piano?"

John can barely force the words out, "I—for, uh, both. F-for both."

Through the peripherals of his vision, he sees his mum freezing, and it's almost unbearable, watching the amazement and wonder and near-worship spreading across her face, and God, does it feel wonderful, but there's a sensation akin to guilt that he feels, watching her react. He'll be leaving her with Harry, who takes after both his mum and his dad who drank himself to death years ago, and he needs to be there to support the two of them. They don't know that, since he started working at age thirteen (part-time, but he'd covered as many of his co-workers' shifts as possible to earn more money), a portion of his income was set aside in hope that one day, he'd get accepted into a music conservatory and be able to leave this shithole of a life. He knows that his life is awful, that his mum, barely passing as a functioning alcoholic, and harry can't hold down jobs to save a life, but he feels this obligation to take care of them, even though they've never done much in return.

“Don’t be a martyr, John,” his mother whispers, pressing a kiss atop his head, “Harry and I will manage. It’ll hopefully be a wake-up call for the pair of us, with you traipsing around London on your own. You haven’t had much of a chance to go just for fun since, well, you know, since your father died. It’ll be quite an experience!”

John bites his lip, holding himself back from snapping at his mum and telling her that she’s being far too optimistic about the entirety of this situation. He nods and bows his head.

“Harry won’t be too happy about this,” he murmurs, unclenching and clenching his fists, crumpling the paper that tells him, professionally and unemotionally, that the Royal College of Music is glad to accept him.

His mother laughs, albeit a bit sadly, and she responds, “When has Harry really ever been happy about anything?” And John doesn’t know how to answer, so he smiles at her, not really knowing what else there is to do.

“Just don’t tell her, please,” John whispers, and she can only nod in understanding—she’s one of the few who have dealt with Harry when she’s at her drunkest and angriest. His mum hugs him to her chest with the unspoken promise.

**_university year 1: late August_ **

Classes don’t start for a little while, but John has to start getting all of his things together, all the sheets of music, some that he composed himself and others not, all the books, the technical training for clarinet and scales that he could never forget even if he put effort into it. He puts all the music away, side-by-side with his precious and old, battered CD player  and CDs, collections of classical music that’ve been gifted to him over the years, that’ve been purchased from used CD shops and thrift stores. Almost everything in that suitcase is secondhand: all the music, all the CDs, everything.

He sits back, and he just feels _so old_ , even if he’s only eighteen, but it’s like he’s going into battle soon. He wonders if this is somewhat like how soldiers feel, leaving behind everything that is synonymous with _home_ , traveling to somewhere unknown that they’ve never touched. At least you know London, John thinks to himself, at least it isn’t somewhere unknown. Broxbourne is only an hour drive from London, but it feels so far away. Every time he would go as a child, it was a completely different world, untouched by his father’s rampant alcoholism and parent’s disintegrating marriage, his mother’s, at the time, developing alcoholism and the bruises that John had to cover up by methodically dressing himself.

One suitcase is packed, and only one more, a smaller one that will hold the rest of his worldly possessions, to go. He’ll need to buy more clothes if he’s going to live in London, and he is unspeakably grateful that his mother managed to snag a job, so his earnings can, for once, be for him only.

John sits at his desk, now devoid of pencils and blank sheet music, and he checks the balance on his card and books a train ticket, Broxbourne to London Charing Cross, and he signs the next years of his life away. He needs to get there a bit early, two weeks beforehand, so he’ll be gone before Harry comes home. She still doesn’t know, but John doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty, not since he’s had to take care of her, holding her hair back as she vomits in the wee hours of the morning, just two hours before he has to go to class, but he feels sad, all the same, because they are siblings.

He’ll leave by the end of the week, Saturday, August thirty-first, if it’s all correct, and he realizes that it isn’t all that far away as he starts packing his clothes. Harry’s supposed to be home the first of September, but leaving home too early means spending more money on a cheap hotel or hostel before he can move into the College Hall.

Later, John’s walking home, carrying some purchases of new clothing, including a nicer black suit than the ratty one he owns, and he says goodbye to everyone who passes by him. He knows most well enough to recall their names, and he also knows that everyone knows _of_ the Watsons, the deceased, alcoholic father, the good for almost-nothing mother who can’t hold down a job, the alcoholic daughter who causes a ruckus everywhere she goes, and the quiet son who everyone pities. They see him as the good one of the lot, and he’s learned to ignore the sympathetic whispers and looks.

He can’t wait to leave, to go somewhere other than Broxbourne, to live in a place where no one looks at him and automatically thinks, “Ah, the abused son of the town’s alcoholic.” No more pity. He knows that he’s strong, and everyone else thinks that, given the state of his family, but he knows that he’s stronger than what everyone else thinks, that he’s been balancing his near-obsessive music studies with the rest of his life. He had considered joining the army, so he could have a way to pay for his studies, but he had decided that music, the clarinet and the piano, made him happier, and back in April, knowing that he had been accepted, only strengthened his resolve, knowing that he had his way out.

If there is a God, John thinks, thank God almighty, because I’m fucking free at last.

**_university year 1: early September_ **

Most of John’s life is still packed up in his suitcases and single cardboard box, and it sits in the corner of the tiny room he’s snagged at a rundown hotel not too far from the college.

He spends most of his days, sitting and waiting on the edge of a neatly-made bed, and he occasionally leaves for meals or a coffee, allowing what somewhat resembles room-service to do their daily cleaning and hoovering. He sometimes plays clarinet, pulling out and putting together his cheap, flimsy wire stand, and he edits his compositions, playing them softly and unable to change the dynamic markings because all he can manage in the hotel is a constant  _pianissimo_ _._ When the boredom becomes unbearable, the only phone calls coming from a presumably drunken Harry in the early morning, he walks around South Kensington to admire the Royal Albert Hall and the Royal College of Art, but never close enough to examine the Royal College of Music properly. 

After the first week, entirely spent with that routine, he takes the tube all the way to Westminster, his laptop in tow, and he walks the rest of the way to Piccadilly Circus just to remind himself that no one here knows him, that he is just another human alive. He settles in a Garfunkel's and pulls out his laptop, ignoring the stares from the other patrons and service people as he orders a pot of tea, costing two pounds but thankfully with unlimited refills, and white toast served with butter. 

With each sip of tea and mouthful of toast, John accesses the free Wi-Fi and checks his email religiously, hoping for some word about the College Hall being availabe to move into, and finally, after eleven days, the email is there and John nearly chokes in his joy. 

He takes the tube from Piccadilly all the way to South Kensington that day, too elated to walk properly, and it's difficult to keep a straight face as he finally checks out of that horrid hotel and drags his belongings to the College Hall. He feels so good, and he looks around him, looking at the other new students, nearing a hundred, he estimates, and he feels so alive. It's just going to be him, alongside the other one hundred and sixty-eight students that are complete strangers, starting a new life in the College Hall, and no one will know what's wrong, the exact opposite of the classmates he'd spent his entire life with until after sixth form.

He managed to score a large single room, and the bloke across the hall from him, Mike Stamford, is nice and friendly, also going into his first year, but for bass, and they chat about their expectations, and they're joined by some other students living in the same hall: Bill Murray, Andrew Somerset, Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan, and Sebastian Moran. 

John excuses himself to prepare his room, and it doesn't take long to unpack his things, fitting the single bed with sheets and putting away his clothes in the dresser and wardrobe. He makes note to save up, once he's got a job, so he can buy an electronic keyboard/synthesizer and a decent pair of headphones. Just as he finishes, he gets a phone call from Harry, and he finally gives in and answers.

"Hello, Harry," he says rather blankly, and he mentally hits himself for sounding so indifferent—this is Harry you're talking to, for Christ's sakes, John!

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry snarls, her voice distorted by the phone speakers, "Why the hell aren't you home? Why the  _fuck_ have you not been answering my calls or texts?"

"Harry, this is the reason why," John manages to respond, keeping himself in check before he can get to angry and just explode and shout and scream all the things that Harry has done, that pretty much his entire family has done, to mess up his life and put so much responsibility on himself, "I don't want to fight with you anymore. We disagree on a lot of things, and me getting into the Royal College of Music would've been something we'd fight on. And then you'd try to keep me from going, and my future would be ruined, just as much as your is at the moment because of your drinking habit. Alright, Harry?"

"You have no right!" Harry hisses at him, "You should be here, taking care of Mum—"

"Just as you should be doing right now instead of getting completely pissed," John cuts in, "Goodbye, Harry."

He hangs up and starts, realizing that everyone probably heard the heated exchange, and he awkwardly checks his watch, noting that it's too late for lunch but too late for dinner, but he still babbles out, "Well, that's settled then. Do any of you want to grab a bite to eat for dinner or something like that?"

He feels his face flushing, reprimanding himself for not catching his mistake quickly enough.

"Think it's a bit early for that, mate," Bill chuckles, "How about we give ourselves a little tour of the campus and then head out to eat?"

"Yeah, that." John grins at him, internally thankful that no one has really brought up the topic of his family.

"Run me through the instruments you lot play again," John requests as they take the stairs down, "I know Mike plays bass, Molly—piccolo and flute, Mary—viola, Andy, what do you play? Oh, yeah, French horn, Bill does percussion, right? And then Sebastian, you're trombone?" At Sebastian's confirming nod and grin, the memories of Harry screaming at John just minutes ago start slowly slipping away, hiding underneath the thoughts of his new friends and the underlying music that always hums when he is content.

_**university year 1: induction week (September)** _

At the angry Beethoven that cuts through his comfortable sleep, John groans, rolling over and slapping at the CD player until it stops, and he checks the time. He has an early keyboard class in an hour, and he curses, wondering why he ever thought that he wouldn't be able to wake up thirty minutes later and still make it on time.

As he walks up and down flights of stairs trying to figure out which classroom is his, John mentally thanks himself, and in doing so, he runs into Sebastian, engaged in a heated discussion with another student. 

"Hey, Seb," he gasps, still trying to breathe properly after walking and running around for the past twenty minutes, "Do you know which classroom the early keyboard session is supposed to be in?" Sebastian pauses and looks at him, a slightly amused expression spreading across his face.

"John, you do realize that my principal study instrument is trombone?" 

John nearly smacks himself on the forehead before the other student pipes up, "I can show him." John looks at him, more thoroughly than before, and takes note of his rather slim stature, and he waves, wiggling thin fingers in response to John's inspection.

"Hi," the student says, "I'm James Moriarty, but Jim is quite fine! I'm guessing you're John? Sebby and I've been _friends for ages_ , and he was telling me about the other kids in his hall." 

John, a bit taken back by Jim's friendliness, tentatively sticks his hand out for a handshake. 

"Lovely to meet you," John responds, "Look, erm, I don't mean to be rude or cut your little chat short, but class is in a few minutes and I wouldn't really want to be late for the introductory class even though it is induction week." 

Jim laughs lightly, and he reaches up and plants a firm kiss on Sebastian's lips before tugging on John's sleeve. "Let's go!"

Sebastian snickers at John's expression, mouth agape and eyes slightly wide, and he turns away, waving at a still-staring John.

"Johnny boy, don't be so rude. It's quite indecent to stare," Jim states quite matter-of-factly as John walked after him, "I'm quite aware Broxbourne has a very small queer population, but I'm sure you can do better than that. Better off if you're a little gay here, to be honest, I think Sherly might take a little interest in you."

John's mind barely registers anything coming out of Jim's mouth, other than thinking that Jim really is extremely talkative. "Wait, so are you and Sebastian—are you two together?" John asks, breaking out of his reverie.

Jim looks at him, his nose wrinkling in barely concealed amusement. "I would've thought that to be quite obvious!" And John tried to think of any manner of response, but Jim opened a door and pushed him in, "Here you are, Johnny! Enjoy your class!" Jim flashes a quick grin before closing the door behind him, and a confused John walks to take one of the seats surrounding a modern piano and an early keyboard. 

\-----

By the third day of induction week, John feels like he's going to die under the workload of taking two instrument principal studies instead of one.

"I have to perform in a piano master class tomorrow," he complains, his upper body splayed across the table, "And I have to write up a paper on composers who wrote for the clarinet in the Baroque period, and whether or not they had an influence on classical clarinet composers."

Mary shoves him, "Get off the table, the lot of us are trying to eat!" John grumbles, moving himself so Mary can eat her sandwich properly, and John's stomach grumbles as he watches Andrew and a new friend he's made, Benjamin (he insisted on being called Ben, and Andrew started telling everyone to call him Andy as well), dig into their food.

"John, go and buy something!" Molly insists, eating a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, and John nearly sucks the entire world up his nostrils as he inhales the delicious smell of food.

"Can't afford it," John manages through his salivating mouth, "Can barely afford school even after financial aid. And I don't have much time to go job searching."

Andy rolls his eyes. "John, if you were paying attention at anything but the food, you'd notice that there's an opening here." John snaps to attention and spots the paper that's been taped to a glass front covering a decent amount of delicious-looking pastries. 

He walks up to the man working the cash register, and he looks up, starting with a customary "How can I help you?"

"Can I apply for the job available here?" John asks, "I'm kinda short on money and I could really do with the cash." 

The man looks at him, and he seems shocked at the fact that John is asking for the job. 

"Are you sure? Well, you must be a first year here, so that's probably why you're asking for this," the man thinks aloud, "Yeah, just come on by near closing and we can walk you through the basics. We've got no offers since last spring term, so we might as well just hire you."

John nods, and he feels relieved as he sits down, joining his friends at the table again. 

"I got the job," John says breathlessly, "I won't be a broke sod." 

"Erm, John," Molly says tentatively, "You have a private lesson for piano next, if I remember correctly." 

"I can't fucking relax," John sighs, getting up quickly and waving goodbye, "Ta."

\-----

John walks in the doors of Costa Coffee, about a half-hour before closing time, and he sees the same man on shift.

"I'm here for the basic training?" John announces himself a bit quietly.

The man looks up and gives John an easy smile. "Call me Greg. And your name is...?"

"I'm John. John Watson." 

"You're the next poor sod in line for the cutting block," Greg chuckles.

"I'm sorry?" John gives him an inquisitive look, and Greg reaches behind the counter and tosses an apron at him.

"We'll get you a proper namecard within the next week or so. Let me just walk you through the basics."

For the first time, other than the monetary/financial support, John discovers a benefit of starting to work at age thirteen, especially in food-services. He finds the basics of working the register, making drinks, fixing up pastries, and restocking to be quite easy, and Greg is kind and thorough as he runs John through. 

"We should start cleaning up," John says, holding out his watch for Greg to see.

"We  _should_ , yes," Greg mutters, "But you haven't seen the reason why it's taken so long to get someone to take this job."

Two minutes before closing, a tall, dark-haired man wearing an obviously expensive coat sweeps in, dramatically taking off the blue-scarf wrapped around his neck, and John beats back the memory of Jim telling him that it's "better if you're a little gay here." 

"One latte," he says, and Greg shoots John a look that says "allow me." As Greg busies himself with fixing the customer's drink, John allows his eyes to savour the stranger, who is clearly fixed on his phone as his fingers fly rapidly across the screen.

"It's rude to stare," the man says, not looking up at all as John blushes.

"You're not the first one to have told me that this week," John admits to the curious man.

"Sherlock, don't be so blunt," Greg says, sliding the coffee across the counter to him, "You shouldn't try to piss off all the people who work here. We've been shorthanded since you sent, what was her name, Christy off sobbing."

"Deserved it," Sherlock declared, taking a sip of coffee before quickly setting it down and making a face, "The coffee she made was just as poorly-made as this garbage." 

Greg sighed, turning to John, "Would you mind making another one so Your Royal Highness doesn't cause a giant mess or scene when we're almost cleaned up?" John nods, and he grabs a cup, writing down the drink name out of habit, and fixes the latte for Sherlock. In a spur of uncharacteristic bravery (or stupidity), John adds his number underneath the drink name, making sure to hand the coffee to Sherlock at an angle so Greg can't see what he's written.

"One latte, for an arse named Sherlock," John says good-naturedly. He holds his breath, watching Sherlock take a sip as his eyes are still glued to the phone.

"It's good," Sherlock murmurs absently, before quickly putting his phone away and looking up at a stunned Greg and John, "Have this one make my coffee every time I come in."

The door snaps shut behind the swirl of Sherlock's coat, and John looks up at Greg who's looking back at him in wonder.

"You're definitely hired." 


	2. The Double-End (Performance Week part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first performance week is frighteningly soon for John.  
> I'm a disgusting classical music nerd xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm naming the chapters after a few of Chopin's works. This chapter is named after Op. 74 posth. No. 11 The Double-End (Dwojaki koniec) (1845)

_**university year 1: october** _

“I need to practice more,” John mutters to himself as he packs away his clarinet and clears his music stand. He tries not to send a scathing look at the girl who snagged first clarinet from him, and he vows that, next term, he’ll be the one leading the section.

At least he won’t have to learn the solo sections, but that doesn’t comfort him when he thinks about it—he only has one solo piece for performance week which is coming up at an alarmingly fast rate, and even then, it’s barely prepared. He suppresses an internal groan as he reflexively waves at all the people greeting him. It’s nice, at the Royal College, where he’s relatively popular and gets on with nearly everybody. They do idolize him a bit, for taking on two instruments, but they also tease him when he complains about the workload. Things are better, even if it’s only been about a month. Harry doesn’t call him as frequently, and it doesn’t seem to be a false hope to think that she may be cutting down on the drinking. John finds it hard to allocate time to call his mum, and the few civil talks with Harry allude to nothing. He should have time tonight to—he most definitely doesn’t.

“Fuck,” John mutters under his breath. He has a shift in an hour until closing, and then he’s supposed to meet with some other students and a teacher for an Alexander technique session. One hour should be enough for a nap.

But he has to do schoolwork. Honestly, John is surprised at the amount of research he does for both instruments. He had a research project on Czerny and how Bach, with his two-part and three-part piano inventions, influenced the style of Czerny’s technical exercises and études. All the research is grueling, and as much as John loves reading through the compositions in the music library, he can only take so much thorough analysing before he wants to throw all the old, yellowed pages into a bonfire.

He ends up not taking that greatly desired nap. Rather, he finds himself looking through more compositions, half trying to build up a piano repertoire for performance week that has a Baroque era basis with either Handel or Bach before building upwards through the classical and romantic era, finishing with impressionism and "modern" works, and half trying to figure out the nuances that come up when he compares Czerny to Bach. After about the first forty minutes, he gets distracted with a particularly interesting biography on Chopin, and, after hurriedly checking the book out, he has to run to Costa Coffee in a desperate attempt to make it on time.

Greg’s taken to John, and they’ve become fast friends. The manager thankfully and fortunately had made John’s shifts the same as Greg’s, so John finds himself eagerly pushing open the door and ready to discuss the new biography he’s started.

“I thought you were going to be late,” Greg comments drily as he tosses an apron at John, “Go get in uniform.” John sticks his tongue out, and he lifts the book out of his shoulder bag, waving it in Greg’s face before he goes back and changes his clothes.

“It looks like it’s going to be a rather slow day,” Greg says when John comes back dressed in a black polo with an apron that has “Costa Coffee” printed on it. John shrugs and grunts in affirmation as he gives the refrigerated shelves and displayed pastries a perfunctory scan. He goes to replenish the chicken and bacon sandwiches and resumes his position next to Greg.

They work together behind the counter, sometimes lapsing into a comfortable silence or standing back and observing the other fulfil an order. John occasionally checks his watch, and it’s now only thirty minutes to closing.

“Think he’s coming today?” John asks casually, hiding his curiosity. He hasn’t seen Sherlock since he came about the job offer, other than during orchestra rehearsals the rare times Sherlock actually comes and the other exception being three days ago, and John can feel the tips of his ears turning a pinkish-red as he remembers:

_He was talking with Seb and Jim, and John can’t be arsed to remember the topic, before Jim had waved to someone behind John._

_“Hey Sherly!” Jim called out, and John immediately remembered the name_ _._

_“Jim, is this the person why you told me that I’d be ‘better off if I was a little gay here’?” John said, masking honest interest beneath amusement before nearly falling over when he realized that “Sherly” was actually a one Sherlock Holmes (he’d discovered his last name after pestering Greg for nearly an entire shift about it). His face flushed and he made some false excuse about having to leave early when he realized the only way to leave was walking past Sherlock. John glanced up at Sherlock’s face. It was what others at a distance would have seen as cold and calculating, but John saw the underlying amusement and inquisitiveness in those central heterochromatic eyes, and it was then when John knew that Sherlock had heard his comment at Jim. Absolutely mortified, John had quickened his pace and left._

Greg shrugs in response, “Can never really tell with Sherlock.” John can’t tell if he feels disappointed or relieved with Greg’s answer.

John is cleaning out a metal pitcher when the bell on the front door jingles, signaling that a customer is entering just four minutes before closing time.

“Is John here?” A rich baritone reaches John’s ears, and he would recognize that voice even if he were in a room with an orchestra scratching out a Stravinsky concerto. John nervously licks his lips, and he mentally thanks the heavens for the fact that the sink’s position ensures that he isn’t currently looking Sherlock in the face.

“Yeah, he’s right there,” Greg responds, and John picks up on that cue, regretfully turning around and praying that his face isn’t red.

“Hello,” John manages, placing the now-clean metal pitcher down, “We’re just about to start closing up.”

Sherlock tilts his head, his green-grey-blue eyes boring into John’s, “I can see that. I’d like a medium latte.” John nods, and he rings up the order, coming to £2.40. Sherlock hands him a Barclaycard, and John busies himself with preparing the coffee as Greg just snorts and grabs a wet flannel to go wipe down the tables. He flips the front sign around, telling the public that Costa Coffee is now “closed,” before rubbing the wooden surface of the tables nearest the front.

“A medium latte for Sherlock,” John announces, cursing himself as his voice trembles the slightest bit, and he knows that, by the small smirk adorning Sherlock’s face, Sherlock heard it.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock murmurs in that deep, deep voice, and John forces himself to not grip the counter to steady himself. John just smiles weakly, and Sherlock exits the shop.

"I'd say you want to shag Sherlock," Greg comments as he returns from his duties, "But you should at least help me close up before you keel over and pass out." John blushes, and he goes to wash up more metal pitchers and utensils. When he's finally finished and walking out of the shop, his phone chimes with a text message alert from an unknown number. 

> _I know that you don't have any other pieces to perform. I've some suggestions and am in need of an accompaniment for a particularly difficult piece. Come to practice room PR213 if convenient. -SH_

John can barely believe his eyes, and hysterical giggles bubble up from his chest when he realizes that Sherlock had actually taken note of his number and saved it. His phone goes off again: _  
_

> _If inconvenient, come anyways. -SH_

He sets off, walking down Brompton Road before making a right on Exhibition, his chest thrumming with excitement at the fact that Sherlock Holmes has  _noticed_ him and he actually might have a chance for performance week. John doesn't realize that passing strangers are looking at him because of the smile adorning his face.

\-----

John can hear violin from down the hall. It's nearly 21:00 and the halls are completely empty. A single door is slightly ajar, and golden light spills out from it just as fluidly as the music that emanates from the same room. It abruptly stops, and Sherlock steps out, the sharp, angular features of his face illuminated from the ochre of the light bulbs, and he's holding a violin that makes John's jaw drop.

"Is that an—"

"Amati violin? Yes, it's actually one of Nicola Amati's, not one made by either his father Hieronymus, uncle Antonio, or grandfather Andrea.  Made in 1659, actually."

"The design on the scroll is beautiful," John breathes, "Characteristic of Amati violins." Sherlock snorts at John's wonder.

"You're a clarinetist and pianist. You probably can't appreciate this violin too much. Yes, it does sound nice, but it isn't particularly powerful, but it'll do for the piece that I have for you in mind." Sherlock spins away from John, stepping back into the room, and a slightly bemused John follows him. Sherlock thrusts a stack of papers at John which he takes.

"Are you familiar with Rachmaninoff's _Rhapsody on a_ _Theme of Paganini_?" Sherlock asks, not looking at John as he sets down his violin in its case and pulling out another sheaf of papers. John looks through the music.

"I thought it was written for an orchestra and piano," John responds, looking through the music.

Sherlock manages a self-pleased smile, and John feels his heart leaping up his throat. 

"It  _was_ , but I found an excellent transcription by Fritz Kreisler for Variation 18. I'd like to hear you play to make sure I've chosen a good accompanist," Sherlock smirks.

The adoration is quickly replaced by a sense of annoyance and a desire to surpass Sherlock's apparently low expectations. John sets the music down on the beautiful Baldwin upright piano sitting in the corner of the practice room, noting the time and key of the piece. He breathes once—inhale, exhale—and places his fingers on the keys.

God, the piece of beautiful. John has to give Kreisler copious amounts of credits for the transcription. John has always been an excellent sight-reader, and he allows himself to move to the music, swaying in time, staying in rhythm as he actually  _performs_ a piece that he has never played in his life. The ivory-coloured keys and the sable-coloured keys depress beneath his fingers, and as the song builds, he exerts more strength and pressure, the chords exploding from the strings hit by mallets concealed underneath the mahogany wood encasing the piano's mechanisms. He can imagine a violin singing— _Sherlock's_ violin singing—as he plays, as the music dies down, as he nears the end and draws out the final chord.

As John lifts his head, he sees an astounded Sherlock. When Sherlock realizes John is looking at him, his face quickly rearranges itself, the amazement disappearing beneath bottomless eyes.

"Passable," Sherlock intones, and it's John's turn to snort.

"You know it was beyond that," John chuckles, "Admit it."

John feels like Sherlock's peering into his soul through his eyes, and they do not say anything for a while, just one examining the other.

"You should perform another Rachmaninoff piece for your piano solo," Sherlock murmurs suddenly, "Most definitely Prelude in c minor. And Debussy's Rhapsody for clarinet. I'm sure you have heard of Sabine Meyer. Go look up a recording of her performance." He moves quickly, putting away all the music, closing his violin case, and he is gone.

John sits there for a while, staring out of the open door, a slight smile dancing on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Op. 43: Variation 18 (arr. F. Kreisler): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cs5iJ6NbhVw  
> Claude Debussy Rhapsody for Clarinet: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgcDbhrnnuI
> 
> I apologize for the short chapter. Final exams for me are in a few days (thank you public/private school)


End file.
